


All Dark Things

by obelisque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry Potter, Codependency, Developing Relationship, Disillusionment, Divorce, Emotionally Repressed, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Dynamics, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), The Cycle of Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Werewolf Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obelisque/pseuds/obelisque
Summary: "Harry looked at Malfoy askance. In this light, his gray eyes were cold and clear. The scars almost seemed to disappear when he smiled, thin-lipped but genuine. He was—handsome. Beautiful, even. Harry's throat closed up, and his hands began to sweat. He realized, then, that Ginny had been right. She had been right about everything."-After his wife files for divorce, Harry is left unmoored and struggling to keep his family together. His only escape seems to be an increasingly intimate friendship with his former rival, Draco Malfoy, who has recently suffered his own devastating losses. But what begins as an uncomplicated companionship between them soon turns into something more, something Harry isn't sure he's ready for.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	1. Nightmare as a Child

I

_Nightmare as a Child_

Harry received the call about Malfoy the night Al turned eight. At first, he had almost felt relieved for the chance to leave. The birthday party had been a tiring, frantic affair from the start, and he and Ginny had been rowing furiously since breakfast. About what, exactly, he was still uncertain. Their home had become increasingly hot inside as the day wore on, not to mention claustrophobic—it was all the children, he thought, who filled up the rooms and spilled out into the back garden. It made the house seem smaller than it was. Like the walls were closing in on him. He had never been comfortable with small spaces.

He was washing dishes in the kitchen when Ginny approached him. The sink was full up with chipped plates and cups leftover from lunch, and about half of the extended Weasley-Granger clan was occupying the dining table. Percy and Audrey were having a heated conversation about clocks while Teddy entertained the usually prim Molly Jr. and Lucy by changing his features from one ridiculous guise and into another. Charlie and his girlfriend, Sofia, were near-drunk and yelling at each other about something incomprehensible. Probably dragons, Harry reckoned. Or Quidditch. A group of children comprised of Longbottoms, Goldsteins, and MacMillans were cluttering up the floor, attention held by Teddy’s old model train sets. Luna was examining her tea leaves.

“Harry, dear,” Ginny said, coming up to him. There was a basket in her hands, and paint was smeared across one cheek. “Go out into the garden. Al is playing Quidditch with the boys. I’ll take care of this lot in here.” Although her face was fixed in a conciliatory expression, there was something off about the cadence of her voice. Like some deep heaviness she could not shake.

Harry felt guilt cut through him at that. Often, he was unsure of why their fights began and what they were over. But that only made it worse, as feeling like he was circling around the real point served only to frustrate him. He supposed there were many things that he was oblivious to. Unlike today, however, there were occasions when _he_ was undeniably the cause of the friction between them. His rages were legendary, not only in the Auror Department but also within his own family.

The first time he’d gotten well and truly mad at one of the children, James had smashed one of the toy soldiers Harry had rescued from his cupboard before attending Hogwarts for the first time. It had sat unused at the bottom of his school trunk for years, but when James turned five Harry thought it might be nice to impart one of the better relics of his childhood onto his son. It only took a few days for it to wind up broken, though, and intentionally at that. Al had wanted to play with it, too, and when Ginny told James to share, he’d stamped it underfoot in a childish fit.

Harry had been attempting to scrape together a meal in the kitchen, but upon hearing the racket upstairs, went to investigate. There had been some primal, inexplicable hurt within him at the sight of that wounded toy soldier, in pieces at his son’s feet, that Harry could not explain. He knew he could mend it with a slash of the wand, but the idea had seemed so far away at the time. All the windows in the house shattered at once, and before he realized what he’d done, Harry had struck James across the face. The horror had been instantaneous. It was made worse by the looks upon James, Al, and Ginny’s faces, and Lily’s distant wailing. They had been afraid of him.

He’d apparated into the garden and landed in a heap. Hot with shame and sick at himself, he’d retched into the bushes before collapsing into sobs. He’d never felt so out of control. Ginny had found him like that. Her fury was palpable, but tempered by melancholy—like she pitied him. He’d allowed her to wrap him up in her arms, despite him being far taller and broader than she.

“I can’t be _them_ , Gin,” Harry said, pressing his face into her neck. “I-I can’t do that to the children. You have to stop me. Promise me. Please,” he begged her.

“Harry, it was one time. An accident—”

“ _Please_. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it does to someone. That—that fear. Waiting for it to happen again.”

Her eyes grew sad. “Alright, Harry,” she said after a moment, holding him tighter. “I’ll discipline them until you’re ready. If I ever catch you doing anything of the sort again, you’ll be sleeping at Grimmauld Place for a fortnight.”

Although Ginny knew more about his childhood than Hermione and Ron, even she did was not privy to everything. Brief flashes of his time at the Dursleys peeked through occasionally, but accompanying them was some deep inner humiliation that made speaking about the matter intolerable. He still had nightmares about the war, and his job—but, most of all, his childhood. Uncle Vernon’s belt scoring marks into his back, the ache of a hungry stomach, and the sneers and taunts that followed him daily. The heat of the sun on his neck. Feeling alone. So alone.

Harry was thirty-three, yet his childhood had not left him.

They had been to visit Dudley twice since the war. Once as newlyweds, and then again with the children. Teddy, in particular, liked going. Dudley had indeed mellowed quite a bit, and his two girls were spectacularly well-mannered. He’d married a petite, dark-skinned nurse named Sarah, whose kind, if stern nature complemented his more relaxed personality. Harry rather thought they’d get along with Percy and Audrey. He was happy for them.

The first visit passed without incident, but the second went awry almost immediately. He and Dudley were quietly sitting together while the children played at a local park, situated side-by-side on one of the surrounding benches, when Dudley had broached the topic of their childhood.

“It was wrong what they did to you, Harry,” he’d said suddenly, fiercely. “More than that, even. It was abuse. I know—I looked it up.”

Harry went rigid. “Please, let’s not talk about that,” he said. A fissure appeared in one of the trees. His hands clenched.

“I _need_ to apologize. I’ve been thinking about it since I was a teenager. I can’t stand bringing the girls around to their grandparents because all I see there is you, being yelled at by mum or hit by da—or, worse, pushed around by me. I spoke to Sarah about it, and she really thinks that—”

“Dudley, stop.”

“Harry—”

“Stop!” Harry shouted. The tree split down the middle. Another groaned in protest, as though bowing beneath some phantom wind.

Harry’s children, used to his frequent outbursts of accidental magic, were mostly unaffected by the scene. Marjorie and Rose, however, screamed and ran over to Dudley, who was looking at Harry with the same expression his family had all those years ago. That same shock and horror, laced with Ginny’s lethal pity. They had left after that, and hadn’t returned since, despite Teddy’s protests that he missed Uncle Dudley. He just couldn’t handle it. There was some wild about Harry buried within his past, and prodding it didn’t seem to do anyone any good—least of all himself.

Harry sighed and set down the plate he’d been washing, which sported a fresh hairline fracture. He flicked his wand to mend it, then levitated the rest into the drying rack. The procession of dishes finished with a loud _clack._

Now certain that he was watching her, Ginny placed her free hand upon his shoulder. It felt nice. Warm. His wife always made sure to broadcast her movements before she touched him. He had never responded well to being surprised, especially by touch. Harry loved her. He loved her so much.

“Go on, then,” she said again, the faintest of smirks playing about her mouth. Harry smiled at her, grateful to be relieved of his post in the kitchen. But he had not failed to notice the lingering hurt in her eyes.

“Thanks, Gin,” he said softly, then began to weave through the throng of children punctuated by the occasional adult until he was outside. As she’d claimed, there was a rather rowdy pick-up game going on.

Harry lost himself in the game for the next several hours. He’d gifted Al the new _Firebolt Supreme_ that Ginny written about in the _Prophet_ after its initial appearance in the Cup earlier that summer. They’d talked at length about its specs over dinner the night before, comparing the relative merits of base speed versus acceleration when Al had opened it. They were a Quidditch family by trade, and even little Lily liked to play Chaser for their pick-up games in the garden. Teddy played Keeper for Hufflepuff, and James—who was a Gryffindor if there ever was one—would play Beater once he attended Hogwarts. Al alternated between Seeker, like himself, and Chaser.

They ended it once the sun had begun to disappear beyond the horizon. Al’s team had edged James’ out by fifty points, although no one had managed to catch the snitch. Harry had spotted it several times, but had not mentioned it in favor of extending the match. He felt refreshed by his time outside, and full up with happiness. Suddenly it felt like everything would be all right. That his worries were just that—worries.

He had only just touched the ground when Ginny yelled his name from within the house. “Harry, they need you at the Ministry—now! Malfoy Manor’s been attacked!”

II

Malfoy Manor was a crime scene. Harry had arrived as soon as he was able, first flooing to the Ministry before taking any direct action himself. Two squadrons had already been dispatched to the grounds proper, and another to St. Mungo’s, where the call had been placed. One of Harry’s subordinates, Wickham, briefed him on the night’s events. At around six in the evening, the outer wards had been breached by an unknown assailant. Narcissa Malfoy had sent a house elf to investigate, and when it did not return, sought out the disturbance herself. Draco had gone with her, leaving his wife, Astoria, and young son, Scorpius, safely hidden inside the manor. Fenrir Greyback, Augustus Rookwood, and Corban Yaxley were waiting for them. It was an ambush.

There had been resentment about the Malfoys’ defection and subsequent testimonies at the Death Eater Trials not only among the pureblood elite, but also within those who had either been captured or were forced to go on the run following Voldemort’s defeat. The Malfoys had since fielded a great number of retaliatory attacks for close to two decades now, and it seemed that one finally proved successful. Worse yet, tonight was a full moon.

“Casualties?” He asked sharply, affixing his wand within its holster. Harry also carried several blades upon his person at all times. He had learned the hard way that sometimes a muggle approach was the best.

“The Malfoy women, Auror Potter. Narcissa was pronounced dead at the scene—savaged by Greyback, according to the on-site Mediwizards—and Astoria died while at St. Mungo’s. Mr. Malfoy and his son are in recovery, but their injuries are severe,” Wickham finished. “It might be several hours yet until they can speak. Until then, the floo at the manor has been opened for us to access.”

Harry scraped a hand along his jaw. “Fine. After I take a look at the scene, I’ll see about interviewing the Malfoys if either is capable of speaking by then,” he said, then flooed the Manor.

It was worse than expected. He was again briefed by his highest-ranked subordinate, Rastrick, and was led outside to where the highest concentration of corpses lay. Rookwood and Yaxley bore the distinctive marks of the Malfoy offensive magic they’d become accustomed to seeing after years of repeat incidents. Narcissa was still under house-arrest for her part in the war, yes, but Harry had agreed to change the terms of her sentence and move her somewhere none of their former associates knew about. Somewhere safe. But she refused to leave the manor. It was that same Malfoy pride that had gotten them involved with Voldemort to begin with, he thought.

“Rastrick, I’m unofficially considering this self-defense. Send the bodies to the Coroner’s Office at St. Mungo’s. The lingering magical residue should corroborate my estimation, but have the Healers check for defensive wounds on the Malfoys—all of them—for further evidence. Make sure to run diagnostic spells on the wands, as well,” he said. Rastrick nodded at this, then made to fire-call the Aurors stationed at St. Mungo’s.

In the Auror Department, Harry’s orders were followed without question. He was respected. His reputation was that of someone who was both dutiful and fair, if perhaps too serious at times. Harry didn’t speak unless required to, and did not share personal details about his life while at work. It helped him from becoming too emotional, which he loathed. He already lost his temper enough as it was, and he could imagine nothing more humiliating than acting like a bloody wreck in front of his co-workers. It was an indicator of weakness.

The body of Greyback was located in the parlor, along with that of Narcissa Malfoy’s, who had been savaged almost beyond recognition. What appeared to have killed Greyback was a silver cutlery set that had been transfigured into imposing spikes. There was blood splashed across the walls and furniture, most of which had also been torn apart. If any figures had resided in the portraits before, they did not now. How the Malfoys could still live in the place where they, essentially, had been imprisoned and so many others had been tortured or murdered was unfathomable to Harry. His skin was crawling already. He could not forget Hermione’s screams, Bellatrix’s mad laughter, and the look of horror upon Malfoy’s young, blood-streaked face. Harry grimaced.

He snapped his fingers, and another one of his Aurors walked over to him. “Make sure to interview the portraits—all of them. They should be hiding elsewhere in the manor. The house elves, too,” he said, and received a brief nod in response. “I’ll be heading to St. Mungo’s to conduct interviews with the survivors.”

Now satisfied that the investigation was well in hand, Harry flooed to St. Mungo’s. He was led back into the “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites by a severe-looking female Healer with bloodied robes. Her nametag read “Healer Lindstrom” in faded black lettering. Harry had been to St. Mungo’s many times since visiting Arthur in Fifth Year—not only with regard to himself for injuries incurred while in the line of duty, but also for witnesses to or victims of attacks. He never liked coming here. Bodies were easier than living tragedies. Perhaps that was the cynic in him, yet nonetheless it was how he felt. But the worst was when Andromeda had died.

She’d contracted a fatal case of Scrofungulus not two years after the war. It began in the slant of her jaw as a small mole, but multiplied into a tumorous mass within the week. By Sunday, it had spread to the inner lining of her throat, where it grew and grew until she suffocated from the inside. Andromeda’s death left Teddy was orphaned thrice over, and Harry and Ginny as the teenaged parents to an emotionally devastated lycanthrope. They made it work, though. It was hard, but they made it work. Harry had never felt so happy as when Teddy called him “Dad” for the first time.

They entered into the ward proper and passed by a series of mostly empty beds containing the occasional sickly witch or wizard until he and Lindstrom arrived at a heavy curtain that divided the ward. He could hear muffled voices coming from the other side.

Lindstrom turned to him. “They’ve both been stabilized, Auror Potter, but the boy is currently sedated. If you must speak with him, I can induce consciousness. However, I assume Mr. Malfoy can answer any questions you will have at this juncture,” she said. Lindstrom seemed loathe to wake Scorpius.

“That’s fine, Healer Lindstrom. I can have one of the child specialists from the department come by tomorrow. I’m actually rather surprised Mr. Malfoy is lucid. I was prepared to wait for some time yet.”

“Make no mistake, Auror Potter. Mr. Malfoy was indeed gravely injured by Fenrir Greyback. Between the bites and the blood loss, I can only attribute his lucidity to sheer bloody willpower. That man loves his son very much, I can tell you that for certain.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Much appreciated, Auror Potter,” she said cordially, then drew back the curtain and led him inside.

It was a small space made smaller by the number of people in it. Two of his Aurors, Bones and Farley, were stationed at the entrance. Three Healers were tending to a small, supine form wrapped tightly in gauze. That must have been Scorpius. In the bed situated adjacent to his lay Draco Malfoy himself. He looked awful. His face was bisected by several large, disfiguring scars, which stretched from temple to jaw, and his immaculate blond hair was matted with blood. Like his son, he too was bandaged from waist to throat. But his eyes were the most terrible. They spoke of loss—a kind of loss Harry knew intimately. Although Scorpius would survive, Malfoy had still lost his wife and mother.

At this, something in Harry’s chest tightened. It suddenly became harder for him to distance himself from the tragedy of Malfoy’s situation. He was close, too close. There was a certain level of professionalism required of someone in his position, and it had taken him years to achieve a grasp of neutrality. He still became too emotional with the harder cases, the ones with witches and children; or victims whose death or suffering came at the hands of supposed loved ones. Those caused him to delve into that wilder side of himself—the one that lived in the cupboard and reacted without thinking. The one he hated. Harry’s neck began to prickle uncomfortably. He already wanted to leave.

“I’ll leave you to it then, Auror Potter,” Lindstrom said.

Harry approached Malfoy’s bed. He was inspecting the Healers’ work critically, and his hands twitched like he yearned to wrest Scorpius from them and take him into his arms. In this light, his eyes were cold and clear, like metal. He’d become even more sharp-edged in the years since Hogwarts. Harry had not seen him since the last attack. That was eight years ago. Now where he’d once been thin and underfed, Malfoy was as tall and broad-shouldered as his father had been. Perhaps he would have even been handsome, if not for the scars.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Auror Potter,” Malfoy acknowledged stiffly.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry began, and when Malfoy did not respond, continued, “I came to speak with you about the events of this evening. If you’d rather I leave and come back at a later date, I would be willing to accommodate such a request. One of our child specialists will be by to visit with your son tomorrow.”

“I already spoke to Auror Bones and Farley.”

“I wanted to take your statement myself. There have been nearly two decades of premeditated attacks on you and your family at this point, and I am one of the few who’ve been with the department for that long.”

“Then you know I was a fool to let her stay in the manor. After all those offers of relocation, and year of repeat incidents—still we stayed. It was only a matter of time before this happened,” he said bitterly, although it was a sentiment directed primarily at himself.

“Narcissa didn’t want to leave.”

“No, she did not.”

“Malfoy tradition?”

“Of course. But as lord of the manor, I should have been more forceful with her. I couldn’t bring myself to make her leave, though; she was so fragile after father died that it seemed almost cruel.”

“Why tonight? Is there some significance to the date?” Harry asked. He’d withdrawn a pad of paper and a modified variant of a Quick-Quotes Quill, which was recording their conversation.

“No. They assumed, correctly, that we had let our guard down. It’s been eight years since the last attack.”

“So when the wards were tripped, you didn’t think much of it?”

“Not at first. The wards initially registered the disturbance as a small intrusion, and nothing had happened in so long that I suspected it may have just been an animal. But when Luxie—our house elf—failed to return, I became more suspicious. That’s why I made Astoria and Scorpius stay inside.”

“Once you and your mother investigated, what happened then?”

“Yaxley and Rookwood ambushed us. They were clever, but weak from being on the run. Mother and I made easy work of them, but during the fight she was hit by a spell of Rookwood’s that weakened her. Something dark. We didn’t know anyone else was there until I heard Astoria start s-screaming. Greyback had broken into the manor while we were distracted,” Malfoy said, voice hitching slightly at the mention of his wife.

“He’d cornered them in the parlor. The moon hadn’t quite risen yet, but Greyback is a savage. He enjoys the change. The pain. I remember that from when he stayed at the manor during the war. He had pushed some of the wolf through somehow, and attacked them while half-transformed. Traditional spell-work isn’t effective against half-breeds like him, but I wasn’t thinking. I don’t think mother was either.”

Malfoy wavered briefly, the pale column of his throat working around an unsteady breath. “Greyback was crouched over Astoria. There was blood everywhere. Scorpius wasn’t moving. My first instinct wasn’t to run for the silver, but to make him suffer; my mother felt similarly. But she was still weak from Rookwood’s curse, so when she hexed him he just shook it off and picked her up in his jaws like—like she was a doll. I shot off every curse I could think of at him. Nothing worked, and he didn’t let her go until she was dead. Then he turned on me.”

“Greyback was about to tear out my throat when I remembered the set of silver we keep in the parlor for guests. I summoned several knives and transfigured them into spikes. That’s what finally killed him. Silver—of course! How I didn’t realize sooner is unforgivable. My idiocy cost my family their lives,” he continued, growing more visibly distressed.

“It took me a moment to collect myself, after, and I dragged Astoria and Scorpius through the floo with me. As soon as I looked at her, though, I knew she wasn’t going to make it. But I wanted so badly for my wife to be fine that I couldn’t accept that she was dying. My mother went quickly, I think. Or perhaps that’s my own wishful thinking.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “You were bitten?”

“Twice.”

Harry said nothing. The irony of Malfoy’s predicament was not lost on him, but he would never wish something so horrible on anyone—even his childhood foil.

“Scorpius, too?” He asked quietly.

“He was bitten. My—my _son._ My Scorpius. Now he’ll have to register with the Ministry. Marked not only as the son of a Death Eater, but also as a werewolf before he’s even had the chance to find himself!” Malfoy snarled, already severe features pulled taut by the expression. He looked almost… feral.

Harry swallowed. “My eldest son, Teddy, is a werewolf. A born one, that is. We weren’t sure if he was going to change at first, but as he grew older he displayed certain… well, traits we’d been told to look out for. He fully transformed right at the onset of puberty, the summer before he attended Hogwarts.”

“Professor Lupin’s child?” Malfoy said, settling back into some semblance of calm.

“Yes. I’ve been taking care of him since he was two. He’s a Lupin-Potter, now. Has been for years.”

“You must have been—what, nineteen? Twenty? That must have been very difficult for you and your wife.” Malfoy’s voice caught on the word _wife_ again.

“It won’t lie and say it was easy, but I’ve never once regretted taking him in. I love being a father—more than anything else,” Harry said. His children were his life.

“So do I.” Malfoy looked over at Scorpius, still and unmoving in a bed that dwarfed his small frame. It made Harry think of Al or James, and how he’d feel if they were in a similar situation. Scorpius was only Al’s age, after all. His chest ached.

Harry paused. “This is perhaps an… unusual offer, but if you ever find yourself in need of advice on raising a child with lycanthropy, you can owl me. Not as Head Auror— but rather, simply speaking from one father to another.” It was unprofessional, but Harry couldn’t wrest back the need to help Malfoy then.

“Why would you do that for me?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Harry said, meaning it.

Malfoy stared at him. “…Very well. Your offer is appreciated, Auror Potter. I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Anytime, Mr. Malfoy.”

There was more that he needed to interview Malfoy about: the condition of the wards around Malfoy Manor; the spells used on Yaxley, Rookwood, and Greyback; and a record of any unusual activity that occurred in the days leading up to the attack. But he couldn’t bring himself to subject Malfoy to further scrutiny at the hands of what in his mind was likely an old enemy, and in that moment wanted nothing more than to see his family again. To reassure himself that they were alright, and to have Ginny in his arms. His subordinates would take care of the rest for now, and Harry would go home to his family. Now faced with such unimaginable tragedy, his own troubles seemed to pale in comparison. Everything would be fine. It always was.

Ginny asked for a divorce three months later.


	2. Shards

I

_ Shards _

After that first hospital visit, Harry began a regular correspondence with Malfoy. The other man had reached out to him several days after the incident, his letter tentative and somewhat stilted. Unsurprisingly, everything about his parchment, ink, and handwriting had reeked of blue-bloodedness, but Harry was glad his offer had been taken at face value. As the weeks wore on, the stiltedness between them eased into notes about their children, lycanthropy, and Quidditch bets. 

He still found the other man far more tolerable over post than in person, although he’d come to appreciate his company to a certain extent as well. In a perverse twist of fate, the cutting remarks of Malfoy’s youth had matured into a self-deprecating dry wit that Harry found he rather enjoyed. It was an odd acquaintanceship, and one Ginny didn’t approve of; he could hardly blame her, considering what Lucius Malfoy had done to her in their youth, but Harry knew better than to punish Malfoy for his father’s crimes. He’d been tempered by grief, failure, and the very real consequences beget his own poor choices. That changed a man. Harry himself was all too familiar with the feeling.

Her initial reluctance to foster their tentative exchange developed into outright opposition as time wore on. Harry tried to avoid any mention of their letters or the occasional visit to her, not wanting to pain his wife further. Ginny was distant and affectionate by turns, and varied between one emotional extreme to the next. She had always been the one to instigate physical intimacy, which was something Harry was still uncomfortable with, but recently she’d escalated that aspect of their relationship. It was almost territorial. The frantic way she pulled him into bed to ride him, to press his face between her thighs, or dig bloody furrows along the slant of his spine while he made love to her. Like she was trying to hold onto something—onto him.

These encounters ended miserably for both parties. Ginny always seemed unsatisfied afterwards, and Harry was left with the inexplicable feeling of having failed her in some respect. Although he was flattered by her renewed sexual interest in him, he found there was something empty about it, and was unsure as to why, exactly, he still felt averse to sex. Yet he remained dutiful throughout it all, even as his ongoing correspondence with Malfoy became an increasingly fraught topic within the Potter home. Usually if something bothered Ginny this much, he would have let it go—she did the same for him when their situations were reversed—but felt strangely protective of the Malfoys. They needed his help. Needed him.

Both Malfoys had indeed turned the month prior and been forced to register as werewolves with the Ministry. Harry’s investigation into them turned up nothing untoward, and once they were no longer under scrutiny or beholden to the “suggestion” that they remain in England for the time being, the Malfoys moved to an auxiliary family property located in a remote part of northern Wales. Harry had expected it to be as formidable and imposing as the ancestral Wiltshire manor had been, but instead found himself invited to tea in a hospitable, if inordinately large cottage that presided over several sprawling acres of lush earth. There was even a private lake close by, one that had water so clear it became a near-perfect reflection of the sky. It was the kind of home Harry had always dreamed of—open, wild, and free from people. Nothing at all like the cupboard.

He’d taken Teddy to visit them once. Scorpius had taken quite the liking to his son, which had Harry consider introducing the boy to Al, who was closer in age to him. Perhaps James, too. If he could get Ginny to agree, that was. The boy had apparently never interacted with other children at any length, and was quite obviously lonely. Harry knew what that felt like. What loneliness could do to someone. He didn’t think Scorpius had even  _ met _ another child before Teddy—who, as a fifteen-year-old, could hardly be classified as a “child” anymore—which he found to be tragic. Teddy affectionately called him “Score,” which Malfoy, predictably, despised.

The frantic tension between he and Ginny reached a head at the turn of the third month. Their arguments, which were always explosive, had taken on a noticeably crueler edge as things gradually worsened between them. The origins of these rows still often remained unclear to Harry, save for those concerning Malfoy. Harry hated what these fights did to the children, who were well-attuned to the respective moods of their parents, but was no less culpable for it. He had a temper, one he found difficult to reign in around his family. Harry knew why he was this way, but couldn’t seem to stop himself.

He dwelled on the hurt he caused his children constantly. How James had begun to act out more as a result, Al’s growing silence, and Lily’s naïve attempts to pretend normalcy. Teddy spent most of his time out with friends, and when he was home, tended to take Harry’s side—much to the distress of his mother, who had just as much a part in his upbringing as Harry had.

His bursts of accidental magic became increasingly volatile, and he spent more and more time at work; there, he was colder to his subordinates than usual, and ruthless while out on call. There had been a photograph of him in the  _ Prophet  _ arresting some upstart dark wizard who’d taken a liking to underage girls. Harry had spent the night prior on the couch after a truly spectacular row with Ginny, and allowed the turmoil of his personal life to bleed into how he conducted himself professionally. He’d been rough with the wizard, certainly rougher than he would have been otherwise. The photo showed him digging his heel into the fallen wizard’s throat, a look of wild wrath upon his face. That person hardly resembled him. Perhaps he'd thought later, it was too honest.

It was as though the two halves of himself were colliding: Auror Potter, reserved and cordial, a man who uniformly commanded the respect of the Wizarding World; and Harry, someone who could no more command the respect of his wife than he could his children. A failure as both a father and a husband. But deep within himself, he still felt like the child inside the cupboard—touch-starved and hungry for affection, yet unable to bear either when given to him. It felt, sometimes, as though that’s all he was, in the end. Like he’d been unalterably ruined in his youth, and would never heal.

In his letters, he still pretended he was doing well, because that’s what he wanted—for everything to be fine. To have the life he’d always imagined. Being normal, for once. Visiting the Malfoys had become almost cathartic. The Wales property was so far removed from London, and Ottery St. Catchpole, that it felt like an escape. More than that, it now seemed to him an obvious rejection of Malfoy’s former lifestyle, and an attempt at a second chance for his family. They had even begun referring to each other by their given names. The word “Draco” had tasted strange at first, but then it came easy. They were not friends, but they could be. The possibility grew more tangible by the day.

Ginny broke the news to him on a Sunday. It was one of Harry’s few days off, and he’d spent most of the morning outside by himself. The weather was nice, and the air felt cool on his face as he circled their cottage on his old  _ Firebolt.  _ Ginny and the children were in the kitchen having lunch. She made great pasta. Harry was looking forward to having some after a well-spent afternoon out in the sunshine.

Ginny was sitting at the table when he came inside. The house was quiet. Unusually so, for being home to four children.

“Gin, where are the children?” He asked.

“Teddy’s upstairs asleep. The lad stayed up all night reading  _ Play-Wizard  _ and  _ Seeker Weekly  _ while listening to the wireless,” she said. “He won’t be up for hours yet. The rest are over at my mum’s.”

“Alright then,” Harry said agreeably. “It looks like we’ve finally got some time to ourselves. Up for a game of Quidditch? Or perhaps we could go on a date somewhere. It’s been a bit since we’ve been to the Alley, hasn’t it?” He was trying for civility, and to be kind. He hated how things were between them.

Ginny sighed and ran a tremulous hand through her hair. “Harry, I sent them away because I wanted to speak with you in private.” There was something about the tone of her voice that caused his chest to tighten. Like a weight, dark and heavy.

Harry’s mouth thinned. “What’s on your mind, dear?” He asked, trying not to betray any of his trepidation.

There was a heavy pause. “I want a divorce,” she said. This was said with such dispassion that something within Harry broke.

“ _ What?”  _ He said hoarsely. “W-what? Why?” The windows began to rattle. Harry clenched and unclenched his hands.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Harry,” she said, though not unkindly. Ginny looked sad. “Longer than you might realize.”

“Why? What’s wrong—is it something I’ve done? Please, Gin. Just tell me and I’ll fix it. We can fix it together. I thought you were happy with me! With our life together!” Their arguments had gotten worse in recent years, certainly, but Harry hadn’t considered divorce—not even once.

“I’m not happy. I haven’t been for some time now.”

“Then why didn’t you  _ say _ something? I would have taken more days off work, spent them with you and the children.”

“That wouldn’t have solved anything. Not the real problems,” she said. “You would have been miserable, besides.”

His face grew hot. “How do you know? If we’ve never tried it—”

At this, her composure finally broke. “That’s not the bloody point, Harry! We aren’t right together—at least, not anymore. We fight all the time. We’re miserable, and the children are, too! Teddy doesn’t hardly speak to me now, and Lily cries herself to sleep more often than not. You spend all your time at work, and when you are here we can’t manage to get along for one evening! Not even one!”

“We can remedy that, Gin. Together, as a family. Like we always have,” he said desperately. “We’ve faced worse odds before.”

“Harry,” she said, pleading, “it’s more than that.”

“What do you mean? You’re just giving up on us? That’s it?”

Ginny’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare say that to me, Harry. Not after everything I’ve sacrificed for you and this family!”

“Yeah, have at it! Go on and bloody tell me!” Harry said hotly. “Tell me all about these sacrifices!”

“I’ve given up everything for you, Harry—my childhood, my career, and my whole life! First, I was a soldier; and after, a mother. I never got to play for the Harpies like I wanted, because we agreed that your job would bring in a better income for the family. We would save the family vaults for the children when they came of age, and work for ourselves in the meantime. But where did that leave me, Harry? I’ll tell you—raising someone else’s son at nineteen!” Ginny said in a rush. Her face was red and its expression caught between that same old melancholy and complete, devastating rage.

“Teddy is  _ our  _ son!” Harry shouted. One of the chairs buckled and folded in on itself. The dishes in the sink shattered. Fine cracks began to appear on the windows.

“Of course he is, you stupid man! I’m just telling you how I felt then, back when I was no more an adult than he is now! You asked for an explanation, so I’m giving you one!” She yelled back. “You—you always assume things about me, Harry. That what you want must also be what I want, and that because you’re fine means I am, too. Well, you’re wrong. This was your dream, not mine!

It’s as though we’re living out this sick fantasy of yours where we’re your parents. Like you’re James and I’m Lily, playing house together. You think I haven’t noticed how much I look like your bloody mother?” Ginny continued, her final remark cutting deep into that place within himself Harry rarely ever ventured.

“How could you say that to me,” he whispered. The house ceased its creaking, too, and their furniture grew as still as him. “All I’ve ever wanted was a family. I-I’ve never thought about our relationship like that, not once.”

“Relationship? You—you don’t even want me that way. Like a husband should. No matter what I do. I’m a friend and a mother first, and your wife second. I’ve known it for years. Even when you do need me, it’s not right. I can’t do it anymore, Harry. I’m done.” She said.

“What?” He said, then again, “What?” Hot shame crept up his neck and colored his cheeks.  _ Like a husband should _ turned over and over again in his head. But it wasn’t true. Harry would know.

“That’s mad,” he said after a pause. “Absolutely mad. We’ve been married for fifteen years and have four children together. I would know, if I was— _that!_ ” He spat in disgust.

“If it isn’t true, then why are you so upset?” Ginny said.

He sucked in a low, unsteady breath. “Is this about Dra—Malfoy? I’ll stop all correspondence with him if that’s what it takes,” he said. Her accusation could be attributed to some misplaced jealousy of his new acquaintance. That was all.

“Oh, it’s  _ Draco _ , now? I should have known,” she said, “seeing as you’ve been obsessed with him since we were children.”

“He needs my help!” Harry said. “His son does, too!” The idea of her suspecting anything between them turned his stomach, and defiled what was supposed to be a reconciliation between old enemies.

Ginny shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done, Harry. It’s over,” she said softly, deflating. Her acceptance was worse than the anger.

“I can’t accept it,” he said, getting to his feet. “Everything will be fine. It’s just going to take some time. I promise I’ll be better. Please, Gin.”

“I don’t believe you, Harry. This is going to happen. I’ve made my decision, and I want you to respect it.”

Harry’s breath came faster now. It was like the Dursleys all over again—not being wanted. He would never belong anywhere or anyone. That was the truth. There was something broken about him, something no one could fix—not Ginny, and certainly not himself. He was going to be alone. Again. The thought incensed him, made him feel hot and close to tears. It would not be reasoned with, and neither would he.

He was struck by the sudden possessive urge to take every last one of his children with him and leave. That Ginny would try to keep them from him, and he would be relegated to seeing them once or twice a month if he was lucky, and be left with only his job and the empty rooms of Grimmauld Place. He’d die before that happened.

“You won’t take my children,” he said.

“I have no plans to,” she said. “Besides, you say one word to your friends at the Ministry, and you would have no trouble getting full custody of them. That’s not what I intend. I want us both to raise our children, just not as husband and wife.”

If Harry had been in his right mind, then perhaps this remark would have registered with him. How reasonable Ginny was acting, and how irrational he appeared by comparison. But he wasn’t rational, and perhaps that had been his problem all along.

“Not my children,” Harry repeated again, blankly this time.

His rage was palpable by the charge it created in the air, and soon he felt as though he was going to combust. He saw Ginny’s lips move, saw her placating hand extended towards him, but could not respond. All he could think about was him and Draco, and how real and too terrible her accusations had been. He had wanted her honesty, and he was now paying for it. The situation became too much to bear. The shame, the rejection, and the overwhelming sensation of loss consumed him. It was then that the windows broke, and shattered inwards in a near-translucent hail of glass. 

He leapt across the table and covered Ginny’s body with his own, taking on the brunt of the assault. Glass pierced his back and sides, and when he pulled away Harry saw that Ginny was uninjured. Her expression shifted between exhaustion, sadness, and something that almost resembled fear. He was stunned into silence.

“Leave, now,” she said at last. “I don’t want you back here until you’ve pulled yourself together. The children can’t see you like this.”  _ You’re dangerous when you get like this _ went unspoken, but it hung in the air between them nonetheless.

“Fine,” he said, blinking blood out of his eyes. The pain of the cuts had not set in yet.

There was the sound of footsteps. “Dad, wait! Please don’t leave!” A familiar voice called out, soon followed by his eldest son stumbling unannounced into the kitchen.

“Ted?” he said.

Ginny paled. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough,  _ mum.  _ I fucking heard enough,” Teddy spat. His hair, usually an exact match for Harry’s, was now an unpleasant shade of brown, and his signature green eyes were likewise muddled.

“I’m coming with you, da,” he said, almost desperately. “Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t think so,” Ginny said. “You’re staying here. Your father will come back once he gets his act together.”

“I’M FIFTEEN!” He bellowed at her. “I’LL DO WHAT I BLOODY WELL LIKE!”

“I am your mother, and I won’t be spoken to like that!”

“YOU DON’T EVEN WANT ME. I’M JUST ‘SOMEONE ELSE’S SON,’ AFTER ALL. SO FUCK OFF, I’M GOING WITH DAD!”

Harry didn’t have it within himself to chastise Teddy for his language. He just nodded in assent, torn between the loneliness that threatened to overtake him and the very real fear that he was too unstable to be around his son. But he was selfish.

“Harry—” Ginny looked pensive.

“I-I know.”

“Fine. Teddy’s a teenager, but I won’t have the others go with you. Not until you’ve come to terms with this. Not until you’ve pulled yourself together. They’re too young.”

“I am their father.”

“You, more than anyone, should know what family can do to a child. Keep that in mind, Harry, otherwise you will end up like  _ them. _ ”

Teddy chose that moment to bound back down the stairs. His presence was, perhaps, the one thing that kept Harry from breaking down at that. Instead he picked up Teddy’s bag and led the boy to the floo, refusing to spare his wife a backwards glance. If he did, Harry wasn’t sure what he would do. The two disappeared in a swirl of green fire.

Draco’s latest owl arrived later that day, well into the evening hours, and with it came another invitation to the Wales property. Harry almost burned it on sight. Ginny’s comment from earlier haunted him, and the idea of facing the other man again with that accusation hangin over his head seemed impossible. But, then again, why deny himself something he found peace in? Harry knew she was wrong. He could continue this almost-friendship with Draco, and figure out some way to mend his and Ginny’s relationship, and, most importantly, fix himself. To be the man she wanted. The perfect father and Auror. He just needed a little time.

He opened the envelope and found it was an invitation to the Wales property next Sunday.  _ Just as well _ , he thought, with no small amount of spite towards Ginny.  _ Ted and I will go visit and everything will be normal _ . Harry scribbled out a quick reply and rubbed the crown of Draco’s owl, Mercury, before the great beast fluttered his wings and took off into the night.

The visit did not go as planned.


End file.
